


Don't cry because it ended, smile because it happened

by madridog (Cirilla9)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Emotions, Friends With Benefits, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Parody, Pining, Praise Kink, Real Madrid CF, cock fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 13:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15973247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirilla9/pseuds/madridog
Summary: A story of Cris leaving Real. Sometimes a distance may bring two people closer.





	Don't cry because it ended, smile because it happened

**Author's Note:**

> Important: everything's made up; this is all just for fun; take it as a joke; don't believe in any nefarious suggestion written in here; I didn't mean to offend anyone.
> 
> Less important but helpful: don't pay too close attention to timeline here; all events are mixed up.

 

 

 

_"Never give up on something you meant to do,"_

~Sergio Ramos

 

It started shortly after the moment Cris hinted leaving and Sergio realized that he might lose him. It happened often enough: one of his teammates, his brothers on the pitch would leave his beloved club to move on in their careers, to choose more prosperous offers; yet another traitor to the crest shield of – Sergio stopped that line of thoughts before the anger consumed him wholly. He should be used to it by now yet it still hurt.

First he was sure what he felt was sheer annoyance and he put all his frustration on display, showed the team and Cris himself his thoughts on the matter. And Cris was just too easy to taunt, he reacted with barely restrained outrage at every little slight, at every smiling suggestion that had something to do with any of his flaws. And Sergio was the master of rubbing people the wrong way. Sergio could make calm, peaceful Messi swear like a sailor; with Cris it was as easy and efficient as waving a red rag in front of a bull.

So Sergio took on parodying Cris’ style, of his “I’m the best footballer in the world” attitude; delivered jabbing comments about how brawly Cris sounded at times; all with devious grin on his face.

“If I shoot, it’s a goal,” mocked Sergio as Cris was about to take a free kick in a friendly match against Roma. The words rang with too much confidence colored with Portuguese accent and Cris was riled up, angry without any signs he took it for anything but a serious comment even though Sergio had his wide smile barely covered by his hand and his eyes were twinkling above. Cris stepped aside with exaggerated gestures of giving the ball up to the captain.

On the training it was much the same. Sergio would imitate whatever Cris lately did, amazing or ridiculous, and it would set the whole team laughing. He would surge under Nacho’s legs and pretend it was a foul. He would take off his shirt after scoring a goal and pose before imaginary cameras that weren’t there so they could take photos of his flexing muscles before any teammate could obscure the view. Everyone laughed, Isco wiped the tears of joy from his eyes. The only one who wasn’t entertained was Cris, visibly annoyed. He kicked the ball forcefully with rising ire.

***

Marcelo, always the one to solve the conflicts in the bud, always the one to smooth things between Sergio and opposite team players when the Real Madrid captain was about to pick up a fight, cornered Sergio about it one day.

“Don't be so harsh on him,” the words were soft but the smile that seemed to always adorn Brazilian’s face was lacking.

Sergio didn’t like it when people had something, anything against him. At every slight suggestion that someone might be ready to mess with him, he reacted with disproportional level of aggression, which led to his impressive collection of red cards. But it was not his fault. He was right most of the times, they just refused to see it. And he wouldn’t let himself be pushed around. Even though it was Marcelo speaking to him, not some Barca player, the words still annoyed him.

“He wants to leave,” spat Sergio.

“Maybe but that’s hardly scornful and you act as if he betrayed the country.”

“Isn’t he about to? He’s not in any club, he’s in Real Madrid and that should mean something. Maybe you don’t care for who do you play, but for me it means everything.”

Marcelo puffed out a breath and managed to make it sound like he was so done with this conversation and Sergio himself.

“Chill out, man, he’s not even Spaniard. It's different for you two. He wants to play football, you want to fight for Real. Whether on the pitch or private ground, you were raised in the atmosphere of mutual rivalry with Barcelona, he was drawn into this at some point of his life. It's not the core of his universe. It may come as a surprise for you but hate toward Barca is not breathed in with the air in Madrid."

***

Strangely enough, it was Pilar who brought it up to Sergio’s attention that the turmoil he felt may have totally different meaning from what he took it for. It happened one afternoon during training when she sat at the tribunes with Sergio Jr and Marco - two miniatures of their father, hairstyles copied perfectly, only differing in shade – watching their father work out.

The team was playing mock match and Pepe tackled Cris when the Portuguese got the ball (which was really a perfectly acceptable technique in Sergio’s opinion – otherwise the squad that had Cris with them was bound to win). Of course Cris did his meters-long several-rolls fall, obviously overacted tumble from the light push he received from his fellow-countryman. Passing him, Sergio extended his hand toward the scorer as if he wanted to help him up, yet as the sitting man reached for him, Sergio pulled his hand promptly back. He grinned, hearing Cris’ curse after him.

After the final whistle, Sergio trotted over to his family and took a sit there, exhausted. He didn’t miss the strange look in Pilar’s eyes as she passed him a bottle of water.

She leaned over him from her place in the row of seats above Sergio’s position, her hair tickled his upper arms. “Between the two of us I always thought myself to be the one more crazy, yet sometimes you're still that immature boy.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sergio, ignoring the dark clouds of suspicion hazing his mind.

“ _Who_ do I mean rather. The one you can’t leave alone for a minute, the one you eye non-stop, the one you’re so desperate to get attention from.”

Sergio tensed even before she voiced the name.

“Cristiano. The way you look at him… you’re obvious from miles away. And I understand: he's dark hair, tan skin; older than you yet acting younger - exactly your type if I'm any indication. Probably even similar in habits to me, spends more time before mirror than you, preening himself.”

Sergio couldn’t help but grin at her sense of humor so alike his own.

“To be honest,” he commented, “I think he spends there more time than you, getting his hair styled and looks perfected.”

Pilar chuckled but pressed on: “Yet you do it wrong. You pick up on him like a schoolboy, annoying him all the time so that he notices you. But he's ambitious one and I don't think he appreciates the jokes where he's the object of all the fun.”

“What are you even talking about- Are you seriously giving me an advice on how to seduce my teammate? I've got family, I've got you, I love you, our sons are here.” Sergio glanced at the boys who were standing nearby opposite each other, trying to imitate the complicated handshake Cris and Marcelo performed all the time. “How can you even suggest a thing like that?”

Fingers scratched his scalp affectionally like he was a newly acquired puppy and not the head of the family. “I know you,” whispered Pilar in his ear. “You and I will never be the well-behaved people world wants us to be.”

***

Sergio turned her revelations over and over in his mind. He gave it a thought, many thoughts actually, watching Cris and trying to guess whether Pilar might be right. The world of soccer players allowed to do such thing inconspicuously on many occasions. It was all the more easy when someone didn't bother to hide his body but rather flaunted it for everyone that cared to look and appreciate.

Cris was a sight to behold and he knew it. He showed off his upper body freely on the pitch, exhibited most of it in the commercials of his line of underwear. In the locker room it wasn’t much different. Not once, not twice he walked out of the showers towel-less or having it flung casually over one shoulder, his private parts in plain view. He never especially bothered to hide his dick nor any other piece of his body.

And why would he cover it, mused Sergio one time under the showers, watching Cris soaking under the spray. Water run down his well-shaped form in rivulets, droplets curling along the valleys and hills of his muscles, gathering on the honeyed skin… Each athlete was in good physical form due to diets and constant trainings but Cris was something else entirely. None could equal with him on that field, his body was groomed especially for football, all these eye-appeasing contours weren’t simply for aesthetics’ sake, they were in actual use for the discipline Cris had dedicated his whole life to.

Sergio felt the ridicule urge to get closer and see how many of the muscles he could count on Cris’ thigh itself.

It was just the two of them in the spacious bathroom by now. The others had cleared out the place after the quick wash off, yet Cris was still standing under the shower, long after the dirt was washed out from his skin and the grim rinsed out from his hair. Then he foamed up his hair and body in two different cosmetics. (Sergio never bothered enough to have different things for each part of his body. Even as Pilar bought him special supplies he just washed in one despite it. Pilar gave up eventually.)

Now Sergio found himself standing under the spray, forgetting to actually wash, simply staring at the view in front of him. Okay, staring did not cover that. Drooling, more like. With hungry eyes he followed the suds sliding down Cris’ body in streams, only two thoughts swirling in his head: _Pilar was right_ and _I want to trace that water trails with my hands._

Cris had his eyes closed to block the water and detergents which allowed Sergio to spy on him freely and, if possible, made him look even more sensuous.

Sergio doubted the other man was aware of another’s presence in the room, he became sure of it when Cris begun to hum. Sergio smirked but then his face fell as he recognized the tune.

“Ugh, that’s Pique’s girlfriend’s.”

Cris’ eyes shot open, then narrowed suspiciously on him.

“What of it?” his tone was wary, uncharacteristically brusque like he wanted to avoid the talk. So unlike Cris.

“That’s not patriotic,” Sergio tried a joke but it didn’t turn out too good.

“And if I sang Hala Madrid you’d call it irrespective. There is just no pleasing you, huh?” Cris turned off the water and left the showers room, not sparing Sergio a second glance.

Yep, Pilar was definitely right, on both ends. He liked Cris a bit too much and addressed it from the wrong side. How much nicer would it be if Cris stayed here with him, his image blurred with all that steam, and wet hair, momentary free of gel, clinging to his skull. They could exchange jokes like in the past, and perhaps a few friendly touches. All that marvelous extent of Cris’ naked skin would still be just before his eyes, at hand’s reach…

Sergio tore himself from that line of thoughts, feeling his cock rising. He switched the water to cold and let the chilling streams wash out the arousal.

***

From this moment Sergio begun to figure out how to improve his tactics. Cris needed to stop being the direct target of his next moves. The opportunity appeared one time almost on its own.

It was at Champions League final, just before entering the pitch when he saw Cris eyeing one Egyptian. Sergio promptly searched his mind for all the boring statistics that were shown to him during even more boring management meetings. He thought Salah was close to Cris at Ballon d’Or ranking… Ambitious, Pilar had said. Yeah, he could work with that.

*

Sergio grinned as Salah left the pitch, limping, walked out by concerned Cris. The Portuguese was consoling him, making a general fuss over the injured man and throwing dirty looks in Sergio’s direction.

As the medical stuff brushed him aside, Cris approached Sergio.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed. “Are you out of your mind?”

Sergio acted like he always did in such situations: he threw up his hands, made an innocent expression and took on a surprised tone. “I don’t know what are you talking about? I didn’t foul him on purpose!”

“Listen, I bore with your antics till I was the main target. But that cannot extend to other people, you can’t hurt them, it’s unsportsmanlike.”

“I have no idea what do you mean.”

Something in Cris’ attitude changed from sheer anger to more seriousness. “I thought we had something, I thought that you liked me, that we're friends. Perhaps I misjudged you. Strange, as I’m rather good at reading people…”

Sergio rolled his eyes inwardly. _What aren't you good at? All boasting and apparently not so much skills behind it as you clearly don’t see what I feel toward you._

“But whatever you dislike me for, don’t take it out on somebody on the pitch.”

“It’s just my job as a defender to stop such actions, it had nothing to do with you,” Sergio cut him off before Cris could wander further yet with his faulty reasoning. “Besides, you should stop complaining and see the bright sides of my _accidental_ foul.”

Cris looked at him quizzically.

“With Salah off the way, you’re one step closer to winning the Ballon d’Or, golden boy. Only Messi left to overtake now,” explained Sergio with a wide smile.

“That’s not funny at all. And I wouldn’t want to win the prize by violating the rules. It is only satisfying when earned due to the fair rivalry.”

Sergio wasn’t overly concerned with Cris’ reaction. The striker could be angry now but he won’t think about it the moment he cradles the golden ball to his chest. Then there will be only sense of victory and fulfillment and perhaps Sergio would be drawn in the atmosphere of enthusiastic celebration.

Nevertheless Ballon d’Or award ceremony was far in the future and however many advantages Sergio had, patience was not his best trait. He needed something more on time and his romantic (deep inside, sometimes hidden behind his language and tattoos and general attitude) soul came up with an idea rather quickly.

***

The team celebrated winning the Champion’s League, a trophy stood proudly on the table, within everyone’s easy reach if someone wished to make yet another selfie with it. Some of them wore the white royal jerseys, Mateo was tying a club scarf around Luka’s neck, Marcelo had Real’s banner wrapped on his shoulders like a cape.

“All right, everyone, may I have a word?” started Sergio, raising his voice to be heard over almost school-corridor-like level of noise, with everyone talking and laughing freely, alcohol cursing through the table and veins of those gathered.

Pepe booed. “No, you talked your share during celebration at Cibeles Fountain. Just drink your beer now like everyone else, capi.”

“C’mon, let him speak or he’ll be unhappy for the rest of the party,” reasoned Isco.

“You can all go back to getting yourself drunk in a moment, I just wanted to say we did it, we won and I’m proud of you. We proved that if we work together, we are the best and no one can stop us.” Cheers swallowed his words and the applaud was so loud and long, Sergio suspected his teammates just wanted him to shut up already but he had a personal mission here, so he pressed on. “The unity of the team is important, and when we are at it,” he searched Cris with his eyes, sitting at the far side of the table, next to Gareth. He paused, waiting until Cris caught eye contact with him before continuing. “I owe an apology to someone I was unkind to lately.”

Cris made a gesture like he was about to brush off his words but Sergio was already leaning under the table, taking out the equipment prepared earlier. The expressions of shock on his colleagues’ faces were gradually replaced by grins and lewd whistles. But they all quieted down as Sergio begun to play his guitar, looking between cords and Cris only.

Sergio sang him a popular romantic ballad and Cris was cackling at first but then Sergio saw something different, deeper in his eyes and mentally noted to listen to his girlfriend more often, for there was that honest smile on Cris’ lips and it was directed at Sergio solely. He missed that happy open countenance fixated on him. Cris’ warm twinkling eyes didn’t stray from him till Sergio ended the song and the collective claps reminded him they were not alone in here.

Someone catcalled. Someone jeered. Laughs and taunts of their teammates mixed over the table.

“Get the room!”

“Couldn’t you be more original?”

“Go to the locker room then!”

“It’s platonic, you fools.”

“Yeah, if that wasn’t eye-fuck before a moment, then I don’t know what the eye-fuck is.”

Sergio couldn’t begrudge them for their fun, even if he was the object of it but it hardly mattered at all for Cris was still smiling at him. Sergio smiled back.

 ***

 “If I didn’t know you any better,” Cris’ voice startled him in a corridor when he was coming back to the party from a smoke, “I’d say that ballad earlier was a pick up line.”

Sergio was tipsy from victory and all the drunk beer already.

“Perhaps you don’t know me that well then,” he said lowly, eyes locked on Cris’ full lips. He got closer, because it seemed like a great idea the way every idea is while you are drunk enough. He didn’t really think it up, it just felt right.

And Cris didn’t back away, just looked at him and Sergio had the pleasure of seeing his shocked expression seconds before he leaned in to kiss him. He had seen Cris hugged and kissed by various fans of both genders and hardly affected by it, so it sent a pleasant thrill to his stomach knowing that he could surprise him.

Less pleasant were Cris’ hands gently but firmly pushing him back.

“What? You don’t want this?”

“No, it’s just- I don’t know if _you_ want it.”

Sergio snorted and ducked his head to graze Cris’ neck instead.

“Would I do this if I didn’t?”

“You’re drunk.”

It was Sergio’s time to lean back and look Cris in the eyes. “I’m not. Well, maybe a bit, but that’s not the point. You saw me do crazy things even while completely sober but that’s not one of these things, I swear. I thought about it, about you, over and over, wondering how can I let you know. I was outdoing myself last few weeks yet you ignored all my efforts.”

Cris’ brows furrowed and confusion gave him almost that boyish look as pouting did and really, he shouldn’t look that young. He was older than Sergio, for fuck’s sake. One year older, but it still counted as something.

“You want to tell me all that dick behavior was flirt by your standards?”

“I didn’t act like a dick!”

“You did,” but Cris was grinning already and this time it was him who pulled Sergio in for another kiss. “But knowing your reasons, it’s easy to forgive you. I’m hard to resist after all,” his voice was all cocky now.

“Shut up,” muttered Sergio, kissing that way too smug expression off the other’s face.

***

Once they were in a room (it was Cris who come up with a suggestion and Sergio couldn’t, of course, balk at any proposition from the Portuguese, he wouldn’t be less than him at anything), doors locked behind them and lights switched on, Sergio jumped at Cris’ backs as he so often did during matches. Cris let out a surprised sound but his reflexes were quick and his hands were immediately on Serio’s thighs, securing him from falling down. He didn’t really need that, clinging to Cris’ broad chest, but sure as hell he wasn’t going to protest.

“So eager to be on the top?” Cris asked mockingly, bringing them both to the bed.

Sergio tumbled off him into the soft mattress. “Eager for you. But top, yeah, I’d like that if you won’t mind. Between the two of us it’s not me who wears shiny girly earrings after all.”

“You like them?” Cris grinned at him, tilting his head seductively.

Sergio picked up the provocation and with eagerness reached up to touch the pierced ear. He traced the soft skin around with his ringed fingers, admiring the two carat diamond but soon his eyes slid to Cris’ face again as the other made a soft approving sound. Sergio took in his half closed eyes, slack mouth, the impossibly long eye lashes and was kissing him again, then moving with his pecks slightly sideways, tracing the smoothly shaven cheek with his lips until he reached the earlobe. Cris sighed in pleasure as Sergio’s beard grazed the sensitive skin and his arms went around Sergio’s shoulders, this time pulling him even closer in, until they were touching, chests flush against each other.

At his breast Sergio could feel the heart beating fast and wasn’t sure if it was his or Cris’.

As Cris hands slid lower, sliding his shirt off his shorts, Sergio adjusted slightly to give the other man a better access. To not stay far behind, he got a hold of Cris’ top, rolling the material up, groping the expanse of bared skin, marveling at all the muscles at Cris’ back.

“Oh yeah,” breathed Cris against his neck and directed him backward, hands never leaving Sergio’s sides, awaking the pleasurable tingle there with feature-like strokes, “show me these tattoos.”

Sergio pulled his shirt over his head. That part felt familiar from all the goal celebrations and after match activities, even though they were sitting on a large bed across each other rather than on the pitch green.

“I thought you don’t like tattoos?” taunted Sergio.

“That I don’t have them doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate them on somebody else.” And Cris’ palms and sight gave credits to his words, roving lovingly throughout the ink patterns, with attention and curiosity of a little boy. “I like these.”

Cris paused at the number VII at his left forearm and Sergio rolled his eyes at the typical total lack of modesty coming from the other man as naturally as breathing. But then his attention shifted upward. “What language is this?”

“Elvish.”

“Really?” Cris’ huffed a laugh and looked up in Sergio’s eyes and whatever he saw there – dark arousal and hunger Sergio supposed – made him abandon the tattooed letters in favor of  capturing Sergio’s lips with his own.

Sergio grinned into the kiss, high from alcohol and arousal and the anticipation of what was about to happen in a while. He long saw Cris as a partner in the game and a fellow in social meetings and of course noted his attractiveness, only a blind man wouldn’t, and now it was all at hand’s reach, separated only by thin layers of clothes. Sergio tugged at said clothes and Cris drew back, smiled at him smugly before removing his own shirt, presenting his toned, eight-abs chest at full display. Sergio sucked in a breathe, touching all these ups and downs greedily.

They all were officially hetero, even if someone had different orientation it wasn’t spoken about unless in jokes but rumors sometimes spiked up from some photos taken by paparazzi, or, more frequently, added by themselves to their social media.

Cris’ touch, his hand sliding down Sergio’s chest to palm him through the shorts he wore, spoke of some experience and Sergio wasn’t much surprised, he saw what Cris added with that boxer friend of his from one holiday, and then there was Kaka, with whom Cris was decidedly too close for a mere friendship.

On Sergio’s part, him and Iker were mates on and off the pitch and it was impossible not to pick up something was going on between the two of them being in the same team, so Cris must had the picture as well.

Cris wasn’t Iker of course, but Sergio genuinely liked him, they were alike in many things. They were both confident, outgoing, extravert, loud; they shared similar sense of humor. And Cris was a really nice guy usually, even if at times Sergio was annoyed by the star’s antics or amused by the spectacles of jealousy. A few times he defended the team members that failed to score from Cris’ anger and harsh words, feeling it his duty as a captain, especially since Iker had left. But in the end it was hard to be mad at Cris, whose skills gave them so many goals, so many victories. Sergio had never felt jealous of the other’s achievements. Cris scored for Real and for Sergio Real was everything. A goal scored by him or by any teammate – it was all the source of the same joy for Sergio and Cristiano was the one who caused him that joy most often.

Now their most skilled player was leaning into his caresses, repaying favor with petting of his own. Cris’ amazing muscles under his hands, for solely his touch and sight this night, Cris’ own hand slipping into his underwear, fingers ghosting over his already hard cock was almost too much to bear at once. Feeling raising anticipation and pressure in his groin, Sergio wriggled out of the other’s reach and out of bed, not wanting to embarrass himself and let it all end before the real fun begun.

Cris’ brown eyes followed him, the expression on his face momentarily lost.

“Easy, I’m not going anywhere,” assured Sergio, and, winking, he added, “I’m a matador after all. So, where do you keep the lube?”

Real Madrid provided its players with any luxury one could possibly imagine. They were taken care of physically, mentally, in serious matters and the ones concerning entertainment. They were cherished, valued, treated like the most prized treasure of the club that they, in fact, were. Each player had a room with private bathroom and TV and a bed much too big for one person. Not that they often used these, preferring to spend their free time in their own houses but the flats were accessible all the time. And they were well-equipped. Besides large comfortable beds, there always were condoms and variety of lubes, a convenience serving both pure fun of sex and a more pragmatic aspect of staying healthy if someone had a one night stand with a horny fan.

They were both fit as bulls and venereal clean but Sergio took the condoms anyway, for hygiene’s sake, from the closet Cris pointed. He got rid of his boxers and surged to the bed again, pulling Cris’ shorts down as well.

“Narcissist,” he snorted at Cris’ CR7 briefs. “Though, I’ve got to admit, I like the way they cling to you,” he added, dragging the underwear off his friend, devouring with a hungry gaze all the exposed parts.

“You do?” Cris asked darkly. “ Tell me more of what you like in me.”

Sergio fulfilled his demand. As he prepared him, carefulness fighting with impatience for better place, Cris had his head tucked in his shoulder, starved, desperate for audible praises and physical touch. It struck Sergio how someone that confident needed to seek approval all the time, to hear constant confirmation of his greatness. Though of that he had plenty, because, really, Cris body and football skills alike were a marvel on their own, so Sergio ended up singing compliments to his ear and could tell the other was getting off on it.

Sergio took him on the spacious bed, hard muscles and soft matters beneath his hands.

“Ever a… diligent Christian, huh?” panted Cris in his ear as Sergio stopped to give him some time to adjust.

“What?”

“Missionary position,” Cris grinned at him.

Sergio chortled and lowered his head to not look into these gleeful brown eyes. “You don’t want to deflate my erection with lame jokes right now.”

He did flip them over, however, and got to admit that stance was a better one for he could appreciate Cris’ body all he wanted as his partner sat up and begun to ride him: the broad shoulders, the abs cut clearly as Cris’ muscles flexed and shifted, working on their mutual pleasure. Others could begrudge him for spending too much time in front of mirror, but to be honest, with such a body Sergio would take time to appreciate it too.

Sergio felt like the happiest man in the world in that moment, lying down, getting laid by none other than Cris. His friend looked fabulously even fully dressed, in a suit and a tie done up to the neck. Now he had all that handsomeness, all that style, not-one-hair-can-get-out-of-my-gel look suddenly disheveled, ruffled by sex and that was even more enticing – all the beauty in its natural, primal state. Not an ounce of fake aesthetics remained, all eventual make-up was gone, undone, giving way to essential appearance. Its basic form spoke straight to instincts – and to Sergio’s groin.

Soon watching Cris raising up and falling down onto him wasn’t enough and Sergio sat up as well, groping and kissing every and each fragment of the other’s body. Their rutting was an intense, animalistic manifestation of all the feelings that couldn’t be expressed in words. Of all the admiration tainted with anger, of awe polluted by annoyance. No words could describe Sergio’s feelings better than that too tight grip on Cris’ waist, followed by a gentle stroke on his cock or a tender kiss to soothe the pain from the bite in the shoulder.

Then it turned yet more wilder, an intuitive thing, not unlike players on the pitch. Both were captured by the pleasure, drown in the throes of passion, immersed in it like in the football game itself; riding on pure sensations, bare lust. There was no place for words, not even thoughts, only action.

Just the long, tiring, satisfying run.

To the ultimate end.

The only exception was that in sex, in contrast to a match, there was no losers and no winners. Or there were solely winners, thought Sergio afterward as they laid, sweaty, catching their breaths, in tangled sheets.

He was pleasantly satisfied yet he wouldn’t say no to another round. For now he was utterly limp though. Maybe if they switched… _I always wanted to ride a bull._

He realized his blunder only as Cris laughed at his side.

“Shit, did I say it out loud?” He must have been truly fucked into thoughtlessness.

“You did. I’ve missed your unique sense of humor but old good _el bicho_ would be enough and much clearer. That is if I get your meaning.”

Sergio just threw another unpacked condom at him. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time,” he muttered.

***

“Tell me one thing,” said Sergio, when he could talk again and none of them had strength or will to move much.

Cris was still catching a breath but he grunted questioningly.

“You really plan on leaving?”

Cris was silent for a moment, then:

“Yeah.”

Sergio’s jaw clenched, he restrained the urge to punch the other guy.

“Why? I mean, I was sure you’re not serious, just dramatizing, jealous of Gareth, putting on your drama queen behavior so everyone would look at you and only at you again.”

Cris frowned. “I wasn’t jealous-”

Sergio glared at him.

“All right, maybe I was just a little bit. But the main reason are taxes.”

“Money.”

“No, taxes. The Tax Agency wanted me to pay more than I already did… I’m not about to start a philosophical discussion here but when I donate money to charity, at least I’m sure it all goes to these children that need it while taxes imply giving the decision making to the state and some of it will go to less valuable places, some will be payment for those employed there. It's now a waste but not the original purpose either, it’s like consuming on itself what they’re supposed to give to people… But anyway, the thing is I tried to convince the club to give me a pay rise so I could settle the required fine. They refused. So I guess you could say it’s about money but have I asked for this much? Look at Leo’s salary.”

Sergio cringed at hearing Messi called by first name so casually.

“Maybe other club will be more understanding. It won’t hurt if it’d be in another country too.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard something of probation.”

“That’s how it ended. I’ve got to pay ungodly amount of money but at least it’s not a prison sentence.”

Sergio found he couldn’t long stay angry at Cris, not on the pitch, nor in the bed.

“Good,” he rumbled, corners of his lips twitching up. “I'm glad you won't end up in a prison. Imagine what they'd do to you there with that pretty face of yours. Not to mention that ass.”

Cris smacked him in the head.

“Ouch!” exclaimed Sergio and massaged his skull where it’d been hit.

Cris was smiling, though. It was good to have him again amused easily at Sergio’s silly jokes.

“So that was a break up sex?” Sergio tried to continue with the light mood but his voice came out rasped.

“I'm leaving Real Madrid, not necessarily you. We can still go to matches together. And wherever I am, I can promise you I will never forget this shirt or this crest and you will always have a place in my heart.” Cris’ fingers traced Sergio’s bearded chin and his eyes shone with honesty.

***

Sergio had their last encounter in mind as he wrote a good bye message on his Instagram and he grinned as he pressed enter, imagining Cris’ face when he’d pick up the reference.

 


End file.
